The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

Today I am taking Tiffany out for a Christmas lunch. I also have a small gift for her—an Eminem CD. I’m not sure about her musical tastes but based on her love of violence I was able to narrow it down to Snoop Dogg, Eminem, or Marilyn Manson. I went with Eminem because I find his music to be the most catchy.

  We are meeting at Rockin’ Robin’s, a young and hip burger joint—at least I thought it was a young and hip burger joint. Now that I’m here, it actually seems more juvenile and corny than young and hip. I’m seated in a cherry-red, vinyl booth perusing the menu that is shaped like a large record album. All the dishes have really cheesy names like Oinkers (pork ribs), Cheepers (chicken fingers), Rowdy Rockin’ Moo Burgers, and on like that. This was definitely a bad choice. Tiffany is going to think it’s really lame—especially this paper hat with a brim like a bird’s beak and this red plastic bib that looks like a robin’s red breast. What a stupid waste of marketing dollars! Who would ever wear this?

  But when Tiffany hasn’t arrived fifteen minutes later, I decide to try it on just to kill time. I peak at myself in the mirrored pillar across the aisle. I really do look quite a lot like a bird. Of course not a real live bird, but a bird mascot like the one for that baseball team . . . what is it?

  “Kerry? Is that you?”

  “Sonja! What are you doing here?” I jump in my seat.

  “Nice to see you, too,” she snorts.

  “Oh, sorry, I’m just surprised to see you here . . . or anyone I know, for that matter.”

  “Obviously.” She takes in my bird costume. “We’re here with Richard’s niece Emma. She’s nine. We have a special day with auntie and uncle every quarter.”

  “That’s nice.” I smile as I try to yank the bird’s beak from my head. Ouch! A staple attaching the elastic string to the hat is hopelessly caught in my hair. Extricating myself quickly is impossible! It’s going to be a slow and painful process that will have to take place when Sonja leaves.

  “And you?” Sonja smirks at my predicament. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, I mentor a fifteen-year-old girl through the Shooting Star program. We’re having a Christmas lunch.”

  “Here?” Sonja laughs. “Don’t you think this place is a bit juvenile for a teenager?”

  “I do now.”

  “I think Emma will have outgrown it by next quarter!” Sonja laughs. “And listen. What about this fiancé of yours. Is he here?”

  “Oh, no,” I respond. “This lunch is just for Tiffany and me. He’s got a lot of work to do, anyway.”

  “Well, I look forward to meeting him at the Christmas party,” Sonja smiles. “I’d better get back.” She waves to the table where her gray-haired attorney husband is sitting with a small blond girl in a bird hat. “See you at the office on Monday.”

  “You, too.”

  As she steps away from the table, she reveals Tiffany, who has been lurking behind her. “Nice hat,” she says in her deadpan voice.

  “It’s stuck in my hair!” I say frantically. “Can you help me? Please! Get it off! Get it off!”

  Tiffany calmly untangles my hair from the offending staple with a minimum of pain and breakage. I heave a sigh of relief when I pull the hat off. I can’t believe I’ve just had a lengthy conversation with my supervisor who doesn’t like me and will always hold me back while I’m dressed up as a bird. Excellent. I pull the bib off as well and crumple it up. Tiffany sits across from me.

  “So . . .,” I say. “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad.” She shrugs.

  We look at our menus in relative silence for a while. As usual, Tiffany is initially uncommunicative, but I’m sure she’ll warm up after some time. I make small talk, blabbering on about Christmas and shopping and what we’re going to order. Then, my mouth once again having escaped my control, I find myself asking about Brian. It is a thinly veiled attempt to gain information about Nick, but maybe Tiffany won’t pick up on it?

  “Do you ever see Brian at school?”

  “Sometimes.” She shrugs. “Why?”

  “Just wondering,” I say nonchalantly although I feel my face getting hot. “You two had a good time at the aquarium.”

  “I guess.” She sniffs. “Not as good a time as you had with his mentor.” There is a twinkle in her eye.

  “What?” I say, laughing self-consciously. “I mean, he’s a nice guy but . . .”

  “Yeah, he’s nice. And hot.”

  “You think so? I never really thought about him that way.”

  “Oh, pleeeeeeeeeze!” Tiffany rolls her eyes. “You two were totally digging on each other.”

  “No we weren’t! I mean, I don’t think you’d call it digging . . . umm . . . I . . . we, uh . . . I’m going to have the Tasty Tijuana Moo burger.”

  Tiffany laughs, and I suddenly feel like I’m the high- to medium-risk teen and she is the older, wiser adult. “I’ll have the Cajun Peeper burger platter.”

  Later, when we are diving into our monstrous hamburgers, I ask about her holiday plans. “So will you spend Christmas at your mom’s?”

  “I guess. If I can stand her.”

  “I hear ya,” I echo. “My mom’s been driving me crazy lately. She’s always going on and on about . . .” I stop. I realize that I don’t want to tell Tiffany I’m engaged. I’m not sure why, but I didn’t wear the ring today either. “About stuff.”

  “Yeah? My aunt’s not much better.”

  “That’s too bad.” I’m not sure what to say next so I bring out the gift-wrapped CD. “I got you a little something for Christmas.”

  “I got you something, too.” She reaches into her purse.

  “You did?” I am so touched. And thrilled! She actually likes me enough to get me a little something for Christmas! She hands me a small gift-wrapped box. “Should we open them now?” I ask. “Or wait?”

  She smiles. “Now.”

  My heart thuds in my chest as she tears off the paper. What if she hates Eminem? What if she thinks he is a homophobic, misogynistic racist, like Moby does? Why didn’t I get her a gift certificate so she could pick out her own CD? Why do I try so hard to have her think that I’m hip and cool enough to select music for a fifteen-year-old?

  “Cool,” she says to my relief. “I wanted this CD.”

  “You did? Are you sure because you can exchange it if you want?”

  “No, I like it. Now open yours.”

  I tear off the paper and find a gift box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates. “I love these!” I enthuse. “Thank you so much.”

  “It’s just a small thing,” she says, playing with a cold french fry on her plate. “I don’t have very much money.”

  “Really, Tiffany. These are my favorite!”

  “Good.” She smiles.

  When we pull up in front of her aunt’s apartment building she sits in the passenger seat for a long moment. “So . . .,” she says then trails off.

  I get the definite sense she wants to tell me something. I give her an encouraging smile. “So?” I say to prompt her.

  “Well . . . I . . . umm . . .”

  “What is it, dear?” I say, sweetly—quite possibly too sweetly.

  “I got suspended,” she says flatly.

  “Oh!” I am taken aback. “For . . . for what?”

  “Smoking.”

  “Smoking?”

  “Pot.”

  “Pot!”

  “It was stupid,” she says quickly. “Like, I wasn’t even smoking it. I was just hanging out with some kids who were.”

  “Well . . . did you tell your principal that?” I say, making a great effort to keep my voice calm and even.

  “No.” Long pause. “I’d only had, like one toke. But they’re out to get me because they think I hang with a bad crowd.”

  “It sounds like you do!” I want to cry. “Get new friends immediately!” But I recall that I’m not supposed to judge or scold. So what do I say here? What do I say? There is so much pressure! Okay. I can do this. I will provide guidance while still being h
ip despite my age. I clear my throat. “Sounds like a bad rap, dude, but smoking up is really not the best idea, especially around the school.”

  “I know,” she says, staring at her feet.

  “I guess you won’t be doing that again, then?” I chuckle.

  “Nope.”

  There is a long awkward silence. Finally I say, “Could I give you a call over the holidays? You know, to make sure you survived Christmas day with your mom? And to let you know that I did, too.”

  “Sure.” She laughs. “You can call me.”

  “Okay. I will. Have a great holiday.”

  “You, too,” she says as she grabs the door handle. I feel like I should give her a hug or something, but Shooting Star frowns on physical affection. You can’t take any chances these days with people misconstruing an innocent Christmas hug between a protégée and mentor as some weird kind of lesbian child molestation, I guess.

  Instead, I give her a “good buddy” kind of punch in the arm.

  “Merry Christmas, Tiffany. I’ll talk to you soon!”

  “Yeah . . . Merry Christmas.”

  Chapter 27

  Bah! I hate Christmas. All this festive crap is driving me insane. I’ve got three Christmas parties to go to this week, and thanks to all the Christmas lunches I’ve already been to, I can’t fit into any of my Christmas outfits. And that’s not to mention my mother’s incessant phoning to request the measurement of Sam’s back, from collar to waist, and the circumference of his head so she can make a matching hemp hat. It just gets better and better.

  I am dreading all three parties. Tonight is a bon voyage get-together for Sandra, tomorrow is Sam’s office party, and the following night is mine. I know it’s the festive season and all, but I have a number of very legitimate reasons for my lack of enthusiasm.

  Party Number 1: Sandra’s Bon Voyage

  I really can’t believe Sandra is leaving and will miss her terribly (recent problems aside).

  I will have to miss The Bachelorette.

  Party Number 2: Sam’s Office Party

  I’ve always found Sam’s colleagues to be pompous dickheads who talk about nothing but money.

  Since the excuse Sam used when breaking up with me last time was his job, it is natural to harbor some resentment toward said job.

  Sam and I were “figuring things out” for nearly a year, during which time he could have brought any number of bimbos to office functions as dates. I’m terrified that everyone will be comparing me to his previous escorts. “This one has a much bigger butt than the last one,” and “I preferred the tall thin blond girl who owned her own PR agency.”

  Most of them know Jasmine.

  I will miss Temptation Island: Australia.

  Party Number 3: My Office Party

  I hate everyone I work with (except Trevor and Shelley).

  On the bright side, there are no good TV shows on Saturday nights.

  Sam has been really sweet and supportive about Sandra’s good-bye fete. “Do you want me to come?” he asks kindly. “For moral support?”

  “That’s okay,” I say, patting his hand. “It’s more of a girl thing.”

  “Okay. Have you told them about us yet?”

  “Tonight,” I respond, feeling my stomach churn uncomfortably. Next to my therapist, my girlfriends know the most about my past relationship with Sam. I am really nervous that they won’t support my decision to marry him and will lock me away with only water and protein bars for sustenance. “I’ve been, uh . . . saving the news until I saw them in person.”

  When I am dressed in a short black skirt, tall boots and a tailored white shirt, I prepare to leave for the party. Sam whistles appreciatively from his makeshift office at the kitchen table as I pass.

  “Look at you,” he says, getting up from his laptop where he’s been vigorously typing for over an hour. “You are gorgeous. I must be the luckiest guy in the world.”

  “You must be,” I respond coyly, wrapping my arms around his neck. He kisses me but I pull away. “Watch the lipstick,” I admonish. “I don’t want to show up looking like some disheveled tramp who just made out with someone.”

  “Or a woman so madly in love with her fiancé that she can’t resist him even when she’s all dressed up for a party.”

  “I’m going to be late,” I say giving him a last peck.

  “All right,” he says grudgingly, and releases me. He helps me into my coat and then hands me my gloves from the pocket.

  “Hey?” he says, his brow furrowed. “Where’s your ring?”

  “What? I--uh--” I can feel my face turning beet red as I stammer out an explanation. “I t-took it off when I was putting my pantyhose on. I didn’t want to get a run!” I scurry back into the bedroom and retrieve it from its velvet box. With the diamond sparkling on my finger, I return. “Phew! That was close!” I smile. “It wouldn’t be right to announce our engagement to all my friends without the ring, now, would it? Thanks for reminding me!”

  “No problem,” Sam says, still looking mildly perplexed.

  As I sit in the back of the cab, I finger the gigantic rock through the fabric of my glove. I really can’t recall how it went from my finger to the tiny box on my dresser. Did I really take it off so I wouldn’t snag my pantyhose? Or was I hoping that if I didn’t wear the ring, I could just pretend everything was like it was before? Then I wouldn’t have to risk being judged by Val, Michelle, and Sandra. God, life was so much simpler before Sam and I got engaged.

  But that’s crazy! How could I miss being single and alone and eating bowls of cream-cheese icing while watching Law & Order reruns every night? And then, as still frequently happens, thoughts of Nick and what might, possibly have been creep back into my head. After the news of Tiffany’s suspension, I had nearly phoned him. It would have been the perfect opportunity: I could have asked if I’d handled the mentoring situation correctly and apologized for agreeing to marry my old boyfriend right in front of him. I had the phone in hand, the phone book open to the Art Smarts office number . . . and then I chickened out. It would have been too awkward, too weird. Besides, like I said before, he’s probably relieved that I’m out of his hair.

  The cab arrives at Sandra’s building, and I find the front door ajar. I climb the stairs and slip unnoticed into her apartment. Music is blaring, and I can hear the buzz of conversation and hum of activity emanating from the living room. I move through the spacious suite, bare now except for sporadic clusters of packing boxes. A large number of tea lights have been placed atop the myriad of boxes, giving the hollow room a warm and homey glow. I sigh despite myself. Sandra’s life in Seattle has been packed away and will be put into storage. Soon, there will be no evidence that she was ever here.

  “There you are!” Val spies me from the makeshift dance floor in the center of the living room. “Take your coat off and stay awhile.”

  “I’m a bit chilly,” I say. “Great turnout.”

  “I know!” Val looks around. “I don’t even know half these people. A lot of them are from her job.”

  “Kerry!” Sandra emerges from the kitchen with a large bowl of chips. She places them on one of the boxes and comes to embrace me.

  “I can’t believe you’re leaving,” I whisper into her hair, feeling the tears sting my eyes.

  “Hey!” she says sternly, looking into my face. “Tonight is a celebration. No sad stuff! We’re going to have a great time. Let me take your coat and gloves.”

  “I’m a bit chilly, actually,” I say, huddling into my coat. “I’ll just stay bundled up for a bit.”

  Michelle emerges through the crowd in the living room. “Take your coat off and come dance!” she calls. “We’re playing eighties music.”

  Val hands me a glass of wine and I follow them to the dance floor.

  “Her name is Rio, and she dances on the sand.”

  I probably look a little strange bopping around to Duran Duran while wearing my black, calf-length winter coat and black gloves, but I’m not
ready to expose the ring. On the other hand, this look was actually rather popular in the 1980s. I will pretend I thought this was an ’80s theme party! I launch into some shoulder-pumping choreography that I used to practice in front of the mirror in high school. I am a little rusty, but I’m sure everyone gets the idea. When I get a chance, I’ll run to the bathroom and backcomb my bangs up in the air.

  But four songs later, sweat is dripping from my forehead and I realize that if I don’t remove my coat, I may suffer a heat-induced seizure. I should never have danced. I should have stood unobtrusively in a cool corner by the window. If only I wasn’t such a sucker for the great tunes of the ’80s.

  I slip away to remove my coat and place it on the tall box serving as coat rack. Grabbing another glass of wine, I chat to a few acquaintances then rush back to the dance floor in time for “Rock the Casbah.”

  “Why are you wearing one glove?” Michelle calls.

  “I’m Michael Jackson!” I say, attempting a moonwalk.

  Michelle is looking at me suspiciously. “What’s going on?” she calls over the Clash.

  “Nothing! This is such a great song, eh?”

  “Yeah. Why are you wearing that glove?”

  “I told you! I’m Michael Jackson!” I grab my crotch.

  But I’m not fooling Michelle. She grips me by the forearm and leads me to the kitchen. Sandra and Val, alerted to the excitement, follow us.

  “Take it off, Kerry,” Michelle demands.

  “Why?” I sniff. “What’s the big deal?”

  “If it’s not a big deal, then take it off!” Michelle is getting frustrated.

  “Are you hiding something from us?” Sandra says gently.

  With a heavy sigh, I peel off the black glove. My friends gasp in such shock that you’d think I was revealing a chicken claw for a hand!

  “What is it?” Val says.

  “A ring,” I respond hoarsely, my throat constricted with fear. “An engagement ring.”

  “It’s enormous!” Michelle whispers.

  “You’re engaged?” Sandra gasps.

  “To who?” Val cries.

  “Whom.”

  “Cut the shit, Kerry!” Michelle blurts. “Who gave you that engagement ring?”